All That Matters to Me
by MorbidbyDefault
Summary: A look into the mind of a genius, and where his heart truly lies. I'm sure some will consider this Crack!...but to me this is a legitimate ship. Read on!


So, here's a new fic.

**I do NOT own anyone/anything. All rights and creative licenses are owned by former creators of said characters/places/things. It's not mine. I wish it was, but it's not.**

Enjoy!

**All That Matters to Me**

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

He strolled through the doorway, tired after a long and tedious press spot. He'd caught the murderer, and was more than happy to move right along to the next. However, John, Lestrade, hell, even his own brother, all insisted that he save face and answer to the public, via the scavengers of the media. After stripping out of his long and thick coat, Sherlock Holmes made his way over to the sofa, promptly flinging himself onto its worn cushions. A soft chuckle came from just above his head, and he looked up.

"Rough day, I take it?" Sherlock nodded in response, hearing her low and dulcet tone wash over him. He felt her slip down, easily sliding under his head. The soft caress she gave him was more than welcomed, and Sherlock felt his tension ease just a bit.

"Well, what would you like to do today? I could easily arrange something. We are in London, after all. Things are more than easy to come by." she cooed, offering herself to him with her subtle words. The detective's grin grew a bit, and he peered open an eye to look up at her. She was stunning. Too fair and beautiful for him to express into words. Too brilliant and clever for him to want to part with. She was his match. His only match, and he'd give up everything else to keep her.

"You know what I like." Sherlock responded, closing his eyes once more. Immediately, he felt her shift, just slightly, as she began. The sensation was invigorating, his mind keeping time with her ministrations. It was perfectly timed, _she_ was perfect in timing it all out, keeping him active enough.

Sherlock could feel her washing over him, a chaotic comfort that only he understood. Nobody else had ever seemed to reach out, to understand him, quite the way she did. She gave him her undivided attention, always wanting him to come along with her for their next journey.

OoOo

It was during these times that he enjoyed the intrigue of chasing her. She seemed playful almost, stepping just out of reach, until he had proved himself to her, and she would reward him with her surrender.

However, there would always be times where she would play 'cat and mouse' just a bit too long for his liking, and Sherlock would grow frustrated, clawing at the walls of his mind palace to reach her. She was always just one step too far for him, and it would drive him mad with frustration, mad with jealousy. She was playing 'too hard to get', and he didn't enjoy it one bit. That is, until he would finally catch up, finally trip her up in her evasion.

And she always rewarded him handsomely for his efforts.

OoOo

"Let's make it an eight, shall we?" she whispered seductively into his ear. Sherlock's response was to grin manically at the thought, and nod his head a bit. He looked up at his lady, this morbid mistress he kept for himself, and she slipped out from under him, taking a step away. This was followed by another, and another, until soon, she was barely in sight. He could hardly make out her words as the distance between them grew, but he knew far too well now what she always said.

"Come and get me, Sherlock Holmes."

"_Not in a police car; I'll be right behind." he stated imperiously. Lestrade nodded his head, muttering a 'thank you', before he took his leave. The wheels in his mind were already churning to life, desperate to claim her once more. The thrill of the chase pumped through his veins like fire, and he couldn't help but to let out an elated yell._

"_Brilliant! Yes! Oh, Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Sherlock was sure he had said something beyond those words to Mrs. Hudson and his new flatmate, but it hardly mattered now. He had to track her down. _

_She was the only thing that mattered. His lovely, beautiful work._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

So, I really loved the idea of personifying 'work' in Sherlock's mind. I really feel like this is a legitimate thing, because Sherlock states so emphatically that it's all that matters to him. We know that that's not truly the case, but I feel that he sees his cases and puzzles in a much different light than what people around him seem to understand. Work isn't just about doing something to fill his time or keep him from going mad with boredom. It really is where his heart lies, the one woman who matters, if you will. Lol. Anyway, there you are. Short little fic about a Boy and his Work. Leave me a review, please?


End file.
